Except he'd left behind his days of setting his mustache on fire with a flaming bar drink. His call sign 'Scorch' may have stuck, but his party ways were long gone. He just hoped the burgers and sodas he had to offer now would be enough.
Even on the chilly winter day, the marina hummed with activity. No one swam in the frigid waters, but plenty perched on boat decks and along the docks wearing downy wind-breakers and cinched hoods, fishing off the pier or lounging on a bow. Carson searched the faces, wondering how many of them may have been at Beachcombers that night. Damn it, why couldn't he remember who he'd seen on his way to pick up his barbecue wings?
He'd been so hell-bent on getting out of there, the scent of whiskey and rum taking him to dangerous mental places. Then once he'd seen Nikki, he hadn't been looking at anyone else. He'd been tempted to hang out and talk to her as he'd done too often in the past. Since he'd been so tempted, he'd hauled ass away as fast as possible.
Guilt hammered him like the rogue swing of a boat boom. If he'd stayed around, maybe he could have prevented what happened. Owens would be alive. Nikki's life would be normal—and he would still be dodging her.
Wouldn't he? His fist tightened around the sack of burgers, which made him think of those brown-sugar-rich wings and that night all over again, not to mention another time he'd tasted hints of the sugary sauce while kissing Nikki after their friends' wedding.
Jesus, he really was in a crapload of trouble if he could remember who catered a wedding seven months ago. His feet thudded down the planked dock, past everything from a tiny Hobie catamaran manned by two teens in wet suits to a Beneteau yacht with jeweled partiers, toward his thirty-one-foot Catalina, a bargain bought used. Good thing boats didn't age like cars.
Without stopping, which would invite conversation and gossip, he waved at the crowded deck on the Dakota-Rat, a sailboat owned by Vic Jansen, the brother-in-law of fellow crew member Bo Rokowsky. The Rokowsky family outing resembled nothing from Carson's past but exactly the sort he'd wanted right down to the little blond kid with pigtails and a wife.
Except there was an empty space in the family since Bo was deployed.
Nikki shouted a greeting out over the water which would no doubt start the rumor mill churning at the squadron. He should have thought about that.
Maybe other people would have stepped in to help her if he hadn't preempted everyone else. Was he keeping her from something better on a personal level, too? She should have a houseful of children. She was a helluva teacher. He'd bet she would be an amazing mother, much like her own.
And she would. With some lucky bastard he didn't want to think about. Someday. Later. After he got her through this nightmarish time in her life safely.
"I brought you here to relax, but I didn't think about Beachcombers being so close. If it's a problem we can leave."
He stopped beside his boat slip, considering something else he could do to fill the day, kicking himself for assuming she would enjoy sailing as much as he did.
"No, really. It's all right. If I hid from every reminder of this whole mess, I would never go anywhere." She extended her hand. "Help me aboard?">"He's a genius with some kind of disability?"
"It's not as unlikely as you would think. One in three mentally gifted children has some kind of learning disability. The numbers could actually be higher since it's easy for schools to miss out on diagnosing the gifted dyslexic, especially when they're surprised a kid from his background is even passing at all."
"I wouldn't have thought about it that way. It sucks to think how many students could get lost in the system based on misconceptions."
He was being more insightful on the subject than she'd expected. Perhaps she'd been a little quick to judge him based on his silver-spoon background. "There are complexities to the levels and every dyslexic student is different. Basically, we figure out ways to send the information through another channel of the brain, usually a multisensory approach."
"For example?" he asked, seeming genuinely interested rather than merely making polite conversation.
That was more enticing than a surprise peek at his pecs. Well, almost.
"I have younger students trace spelling words in corn meal with a finger."
"Why not have all students do it that way? Sounds a helluva lot more fun than gripping a pencil until your fingers go numb."
"I agree."
He flashed a killer smile her way, sun reflecting off his aviator shades, darn near blinding her with the vibrancy. "Where were you when I was drilling spelling words? Wait." He thumped his head. "You weren't born yet."
"Are we beating that dead horse today?"
"With your vintage music fixation and my tapioca pudding, maybe we're not so far apart in age after all.
Something dangerous fluttered to life in her empty stomach. "Took you long enough to figure that one out."
"Too late, I'm guessing."
Was he regretting that? Hinting for something now? And sheesh, but she hated how even thinking it flipped her hungry stomach around. Not gonna go that route again. "Seems so."
"At least I can take comfort in knowing I'm not a COG."
"COG?"